


if you just wanna take me home

by medusacascade22



Category: Hockey RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Crossover, M/M, New York City, One Night Stands, Washington Capitals, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusacascade22/pseuds/medusacascade22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike goes out after a game in New York and meets a mysterious stranger in a bar.</p><p>Or, in which Mike Green is the only human who isn't afraid of Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you just wanna take me home

**Author's Note:**

> set circa 2010, when Derek was in NYC and the young guns were all together.  
> this can easily be read as derek hale/omc or mike green/omc, if you're only familiar with one of the two fandoms  
> title from "kiss you" by one direction
> 
> enjoy! ♥

 

 

Mike doesn’t make a habit of hanging out at dingy New York City bars on Thursday nights, but here he is.

It’s not his first choice by any stretch. They just got their asses handed to them by the Rangers, which never leads to a pleasant night. When they finally get back to the hotel, Ovi and Sasha drag Nick and to their favorite Russian place in the city, saying that good food and better vodka would make them all feel better. Mike is invited along, but he declines, claiming he wants an evening alone. It’s a lie, but he can’t stand the idea of pretending to have fun all night long.

Mike hangs around the room for a few minutes after they leave, but he’s restless and can feel leftover angry adrenaline from the game thrumming under his skin, pushing up under his still-forming bruises. He wants to see something, anything other than the bland walls of the hotel room, so he tugs on his jacket and heads out.

He wanders around the streets around the hotel for a while, keeping his head down and doing his best not to bump into anyone. He gets to a pocket of the city whose lights are a tiny bit, which appeals to him much more than the super modern high-rises around the hotel. Mike is cold and kind of thirsty, so he ducks into the first bar he sees. The front window featured a collection of tacky neon signs advertising the brands of beer they serve. It’s not the classiest décor, but Mike has seen worse. Hell, Ovi’s first apartment in DC was way worse, and a whole lot brighter.

The place is dark and smells like peanuts and stale beer, but there’s a soft buzz of conversation coming from booths across the far wall, enough that Mike feels comfortable enough to grab an empty barstool. The bartender comes over a few moments later. She’s cute, but Mike doesn’t feel the need to flirt with her. She seems happy with the nod of thanks Mike gives her when she slides the bottle over.

Mike takes a few swigs, and then sets it down to pick at the label while he glances around the bar. He can see more now that his eyes have had a chance to adjust to the dim light. There’s a dartboard in the corner, small tables with half-empty glasses on them, and a few patrons at the counter dressed in mostly dark colors. Maybe if Mike was half his size, he’d think this place as kind of shady, but he feels weirdly comfortable. It’s not like he couldn’t handle anything anyone in here could throw at him, he’s a freaking hockey player.

Mike drinks a bit more quickly than he usually would, but his new bruises are starting to throb a little, and he tomorrow is a travel day, so he doesn’t try and stop himself.

He’s feeling more social once he’s on his second bottle, so he turns to the guy sitting a few stools away towards a wall. The guy is staring, no, _glowering_ into his drink. His shoulders are hunched forward in a jacket so dark that he pretty much blends in with the wall behind him. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy that most people approach, but Mike isn’t most people, and hey, misery loves company.

Mike clears his throat before nodding in the guy’s direction and saying, “Hey.” The guy looks up, so Mike knows he heard. The guy just narrows his eyes at Mike in something approaching a glare before looking back down.

Well, someone’s not in a very good mood.

Mike can work with that. “You from around here?” he tries.

“No,” Mr. Unhappy grunts, which is progress.

“Me either,” Mike smiles grimly, even though the guy isn’t looking at him, “I kind of hate it here; the city in general, really. Too many people,”

“Yep,” he says after just a beat too long.

“Sometimes I wish they’d all just shut up, y’know?” Mike is mostly referring to the Ranger fans that spent their evenings screaming profanity at him, but right now he’s willing to clump the entire city together under the tag “ _assholes_.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and Mike thinks maybe he’s getting somewhere.

“I’m Mike,” he holds a hand out to shake.

“Derek,” Derek stares at Mike’s hand for a while before shaking it, hard. Mike grins.

“Excellent,” Mike barely resists the urge to clap his hands together in front of him. “Now what do you r _eally_ drink?”

Derek cocks an eyebrow and gives Mike a slow once-over. It seems that Mike has passed, because then Derek is lifting a finger to get the bartender’s attention and ordering two of something that Mike doesn’t recognize. Mike moves to the seat next to Derek and earns a glare for his trouble. It might intimidate most people, but Mike has seen worse from Blue Jackets.

The drink Derek ordered is dark and comes in a tall glass. Mike takes a sip. It’s strong, but nothing Mike can’t handle, so he takes another. Derek watches him for a while before starting in on his own.

Mike gets chattier and chattier as his glass empties, though Derek seems completely unaffected. He continues to give short, sometimes sarcastic answers, but at least he’s contributing. It’s nice to talk to someone who knows nothing about his life, so maybe Mike is talking more than he normally would, but Derek isn’t complaining. He’s not encouraging, but whatever.

Mike doesn’t really keep track of what he’s saying; just letting whatever enters his brain fall out of his mouth. He’s rambling about how Calgary has the best snow, maybe tied with Edmonton but it’s a close one, when Derek cuts him off.

“Follow me,” he says, and Mike isn’t going to argue with the look in Derek’s eyes. He knows that he might be moments away from the wrong end of a homicide, but for some unknown reason he trusts that Derek won’t stab him in a dark New York alley. He probably shouldn’t, but it’s hard to fight against the booze.

Derek moves like Mike isn’t even there, winding through tables and down a narrow hallway littered with doors. He stops short and pushes one open. “In here,” he says before stepping inside.

Mike is expecting a bathroom or an alley or something predictable, but nope, it’s a liquor cabinet. It seems unlikely that Derek would choose a liquor cabinet to execute a murder, so Mike relaxes.

Before Mike can actually ask why they’re in here, Derek answers by pushing Mike against the only patch of wall that isn’t heavily shelved and reaching for Mike’s belt. He makes quick work of it, getting Mike’s pants open and dick out before Mike can even think of protesting. And then Derek has his hand around Mike’s dick, jacking him off roughly, and any thought other than _fuck, yeah, more_ , is gone.

“Jesus,” Mike groans, pushing up into Derek’s grip. Derek doesn’t answer, just leans the top of his head against the wall that’s supporting Mike, his nose angled towards Mike’s shoulder.

Mike certainly isn’t a teenager anymore, so the simple dry friction of Derek’s hand shouldn’t be enough to get him off, but thanks to the booze and confusion, it’s working. He works out a sort of rhythm, thrusting up into Derek’s hand, grunting when Derek shifts so his thumb rubs against the head of mike’s dick. He comes with an undignified grunt.

“You want?” Mike gestures towards Derek’s pants, but Derek waves him off.

“I’m good,” Derek says. He brings his dirty hand up to his mouth and licks it once before reaching for a napkin from one of the shelves. It’s kind of gross, but also kind of hot, which gets Mike to grab one as well and scribble his number on it.

“If you ever change your mind,” Mike says, shoving it into Derek’s front pocket. He knows he won’t be in town if Derek decides to use it, but he seriously doubts that’ll ever happen, so it doesn’t really matter. It’s more the gesture, he guesses. Mike doesn’t really know what to do—this isn’t exactly a one night stand. There aren’t rules for one-sided out of town bar closet hand jobs, as far as Mike knows. They haven’t even kissed.

Mike is wondering whether or not he should fix that, but Derek decides for him by nodding curtly and leaving the closet. Mike takes a moment to collect himself; mostly fumbling with his zipper and checking his phone to make sure that Nick didn’t get back to the room, freak out, and file a missing person’s report, before leaving as well.

He finds his way back to the main room and Derek is nowhere to be seen. He thinks about asking the bartender where he went, but what would he do with the information? So he just goes to pay his tab, discovers that it’s already been paid, which is nice, confusing and unexpected, but nice, and heads back to the hotel.

The street looks exactly the same on the way back as it did on the way there, like absolutely nothing has changed. Mike thinks maybe that’s exactly true.

 

 

~fin

 


End file.
